‘Bear with me, Nicolas. This is going to sound like a roundabout answer to your question.’ He folds his hands while he collects his thoughts. When he finally speaks, his diction seems precise and rehearsed. This is a speech he’s made before, to more important ears than Nicolas’s. ‘I am a servant of the Tsar,’ he says. ‘My task is to identify threats to the peace and security of his empire. My task is not to inflict pain and suffering. Far from it. What’s more, I believe that pain is a clumsy way of changing minds. Pain tells no story. To the expert, to the artist of control, what is interesting is the stories that people tell: Who is to blame? Who is to be trusted? Who is at fault? Who benefits? Who is truly shaping events? Control the answers to those questions and you rarely, if ever, need to inflict pain. Fail to control them and you quickly learn this: nothing is more dangerous than a story.’

He pauses and sips his wine. When he smiles, Nicolas feels touched, in spite of everything, by Rachkovsky’s obvious affection for him. The spymaster leans across the table and talks quietly. ‘I have a somewhat different approach to my predecessors. Our enemies – and I don’t shirk from that word – our enemies have a powerful story. There is a hero and a villain, they say. The villain is oppressing the hero. The hero must fight back and in doing so will either die or bring into existence a juster world. Well, we can’t argue with the power or attractiveness of that. I dare say, as a youth yourself, you find something in you that responds to it. It’s a sexy combination, frankly.’ Rachkovsky flutters his fingers as though conjuring an analogy from the air. ‘It has a chemical power – like a voltaic cell. Oppress them, hurt them, punish them, and what happens? The electrical charge only increases. Suddenly, we are duelling thunderbolts. A foolish endeavour. We must offer instead a more persuasive alternative.’

Rachkovsky signals to the waiter to remove the dish. The next course, much more to Nicolas’s liking, is toast spread with the drippings of the birds and Roquefort. Rachkovsky sips the wine – a venerable, agate burgundy – and shakes his head. ‘Divine.’ His signet ring clicks against the glass as he lowers it to the table.

‘So – what’s your story?’ asks Nicolas.